The Welfare of the Dead

by Lee Jackson

  ‘Miss Krout, a word if you please.’

  ‘Sir?’ replies Annabel, looking up.

  ‘I wonder if you might, in future, be a little more circumspect.’

  ‘I’m sorry, I don’t understand,’ replies Annabel.

  ‘Your remarks to the inspector concerning this fellow who drowned. Implying that the fellow had some connection with this family. It won’t do, Miss Krout. I suppose the damage is done now; but I would rather you said nothing further on the matter, particularly not to Lucinda; she is quite disturbed enough.’

  ‘I only told him the truth, sir,’ says Annabel.

  ‘Miss Krout,’ says Woodrow, raising his voice, ‘you may imagine yourself pursued all over London by strange men, but I will not have such fancies passed off as plain fact to the police. They have better things to do with their time, I am sure, than chase the phantoms of your imagination.’

  ‘The man was dead, sir. I did not imagine that.’

  ‘Nonetheless,’ says Woodrow, his voice far from authoritative; there is almost a hint of hysteria in it, ‘I have had my say.’

  ‘Sir,’ says Annabel Krout, ‘I disagree—’

  ‘Miss Krout,’ says Woodrow, ‘do not defy me. You will come off the worse.’

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘You heard me, Miss Krout.’

  ‘Ah, Sergeant,’ says Joshua Siddons, ushering the two policemen into his rooms. ‘Come, take a seat. And your colleague is . . .’

  ‘Webb, sir. Inspector Webb.’

  ‘Well, an honour to meet you, sir. A positive honour. Pray, have a seat.’

  ‘Thank you,’ says Webb as the two men sit down.

  ‘Is this more about the Munday business, Inspector? I am afraid I have not been able to locate our ledger. Shabby of us, I must confess. I suspect it was lost back in fifty-four. There was a fire, you see; almost ruined the firm. Lost a lot of stock too. In any case, I don’t believe there is much more I can tell you.’

  ‘No, it’s a different matter, sir,’ says Webb. ‘I understand you dined last night with Mr. Jasper Woodrow?’

  ‘Woodrow? Yes, of course. Mrs. Woodrow invited me to dinner. Marvellous woman. And their cook – no words to describe it, Inspector. I hope there is nothing wrong, sir? Good heavens, I hope nothing has happened?’

  ‘Not to the family, Mr. Siddons. But a man was found dead in the Regent’s Canal, late last night, murdered. We understand he had been pestering Mr. Woodrow’s cousin; he may have even been watching the house. We wondered if you saw anything or anyone acting suspiciously.’

  ‘Miss Krout? Poor girl! Lovely creature; charming. I’m afraid I caught a cab pretty sharp, Inspector. Saw no-one, far as I recall. How awful, though, eh?’

  ‘The man was a Greek, sir. Large build, dark hair,’ adds Bartleby.

  ‘A Greek? Good Lord. No, Sergeant, I don’t think I saw anyone. You must forgive me. At my age, the eyes are not quite what once they were, you know.’

  ‘Have you been a friend of the family long, sir?’ asks Webb.

  ‘Many years, Inspector. Knew Mrs. Woodrow’s pater; capital fellow. And Woodrow, of course, used to work for me; did you know that? Managed our Manchester office before he was married.’

  ‘I see. Did he work there long?’

  ‘In Manchester? What an inquiring mind you have, Inspector. Well I should say it must be a good twenty years or so. Worked his way up; always been a determined sort of fellow.’

  ‘You found him reliable too?’

  ‘That’s why I asked him to London, sir. Head clerk, before he married and came into the wife’s property. Always said, sir, anywhere money changes hands, one needs a man one can trust, eh?’

  ‘We are no further on, sir,’ suggests Sergeant Bartleby as the two men depart Salisbury Square.

  ‘Oh, I’m not sure I’d say that, Sergeant. We know a little more about Mr. Woodrow, at least.’

  Bartleby says nothing, but a look of skepticism clouds his face.

  ‘You’d best be off to Abney Park this afternoon, Sergeant,’ continues Webb. ‘I want the place thoroughly searched. We have left it too long already.’

  ‘But with everything else, sir—’ protests Bartleby. Webb, however, interrupts.

  ‘We have Hanson watching Woodrow; and I fear there is little else to do today. Besides, it may prove just as important, Sergeant. It worries me that the same names keep re-occurring. There may even be a connection between the Abney Park business and the rest of this affair.’

  ‘Like what, sir?’

  ‘If I knew that,’ says Webb, exasperated, ‘you would not need to search the place.’

  ‘I’ll leave no stone unturned, sir,’ says the sergeant, keeping his face entirely straight.

  Webb shakes his head. ‘You have far too much of the music-hall about you, Sergeant.’

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  AS THE HALL CLOCK strikes six p.m., Annabel Krout sits opposite her cousin, in front of the warm hearth of the Woodrows’ morning-room. Mrs. Woodrow, for her part, leans over a wooden tray upon her lap, engaged in the delicate process of embroidering a monograph upon one of her husband’s pocket-handkerchiefs. But there is something lacking in her concentration, and despite the curlicued ‘J.W.’ clearly drawn upon the tracing-paper, the progress of Mrs. Woodrow’s needle does not quite seem to match the pattern. Annabel, meanwhile, having abandoned Walter Scott, the book sitting open upon a nearby table, takes up the Ladies Home Journal, and idly reads the correspondence page, which principally is devoted to a debate upon the proper management of the home aquarium. It does not hold her attention for long, however, and she slumps back in the plum-coloured leather of the armchair, and gazes around the room, from one corner to another, from the gaselier to the grate. The china statuettes upon the over-mantel, however, seem to stare back at her in silent rebuke at her inattention to the wisdom of the Ladies Home Journal, and she returns to its pages once more. But she cannot bear to read it for long and soon glances back at Mrs. Woodrow. Her cousin seems strangely silent, even when she pricks her finger upon her needle, and flinches in pain.

  ‘Do you think Mr. Langley will still come tomorrow?’ says Annabel at last. ‘I do not suppose anyone would mind if we still went out?’

  Mrs. Woodrow looks up from her work, a rather forlorn expression on her face. ‘Oh, my dear,’ she says, ‘I do hope so. You deserve a pleasant outing. This awful business with the police – what must you think of us?’

  ‘It is not your fault, cousin.’

  ‘But, my dear,’ says Mrs. Woodrow, as if about to protest, but then breaking suddenly into tears. She takes a fresh handkerchief from her sleeve and dabs her eyes.

  ‘Melissa, please, not on my account.’

  ‘You don’t know the worst of it, my dear,’ says Mrs. Woodrow, choking back a small sob. ‘Jervis gave me his notice this morning.’

  ‘Oh, I see.’

  ‘I cannot blame him. He said he “hoped he had given satisfaction, but would prefer a quieter establishment”. Can you believe it? I expect we are the talk of the street by now. And how long before we lose Mrs. Figgis and Jacobs?’

  ‘Melissa—’

  But Annabel’s words of comfort are cut short by the appearance of Jacobs at the door, as if conjured by the mention of her name.

  ‘Ma’am, beg your pardon . . .’

  ‘What is it?’ asks Mrs. Woodrow, straightening in her chair.

  ‘It’s Miss Lucy, ma’am. She won’t touch her dinner. I wouldn’t trouble you, ma’am, but she hasn’t eaten all day.’

  Mrs. Woodrow sighs. ‘She’ll be the death of me, I swear it.’

  ‘I expect it is all the excitement of this morning,’ suggests Annabel.

  ‘No doubt,’ replies Mrs. Woodrow. ‘But what am I to do with her, my dear? She has such a delicate constitution at the best of times. And, I confess, I am not at all myself.’

  ‘Shall I go up and speak to her, cousin?’ suggests Annabel. ‘Perhaps I can help.’

  ‘Annab
el, are you sure? You are an angel.’

  ‘It is no trouble,’ says Annabel. She gets up and, with a nod to the maid, follows Jacobs out of the room.

  ‘Thank you, Miss,’ says Jacobs, once they are on the stairs, out of hearing distance of her mistress. ‘I’ve tried my best, Miss, Lord knows.’

  ‘I’m sure you have,’ replies Annabel. ‘Is she ill, do you think? Or just unsettled by this morning?’

  ‘Stubborn is what she is, begging your pardon, Miss.’

  Inside the nursery, Annabel finds Lucinda at her little desk, much as upon the first day they met, poring over her alphabet. Her food sits untouched upon a small table on the other side of the room, a vacant chair beside it.

  ‘Lucy?’ says Annabel. ‘Are you all right, dear?’

  It seems an age before the girl answers. ‘Yes,’ says Lucy, at last, not looking up.

  ‘You haven’t eaten your dinner,’ says Annabel.

  ‘I don’t want it.’

  ‘Well, I expect it’s cold now. Shall I have Jacobs heat it up for you?’

  ‘I don’t want it,’ says Lucy emphatically.

  Annabel bends down next to the little girl. ‘What’s wrong, dear? You can tell me. Is it something about last night?’

  Lucy shakes her head, but her eyes look fixedly down at the nursery floor, as if trying to avoid Annabel’s gaze.

  ‘It is, isn’t it?’ says Annabel, gently touching her arm.

  Lucy scowls, and nods.

  ‘What is it, dear?’

  ‘I told a lie,’ she says, hesitating, ‘to the policeman.’

  ‘Go on,’ says Annabel, puzzled.

  ‘I did see him.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘The big man. I saw him lots of times.’

  ‘You mean you saw the man who . . . well, you saw him here, outside?’

  ‘Lots.’

  ‘But why didn’t you say so?’ asks Annabel.

  ‘Because he was fighting with . . .’

  But then Lucy shakes her head and puts a finger to her lips. For, at the same moment, there is a sudden pounding of feet upon the stairs. Annabel turns around to see Jasper Woodrow stride into the room. Even though he is a couple of feet distant, she can smell liquor on his breath. Annabel stands up.

  ‘I would talk to my daughter, Miss Krout, if you please,’ says Woodrow. There is already a suggestion of anger in his voice.

  ‘Well, of course,’ says Annabel, ‘but she was just telling me—’

  Before Annabel can continue, however, Lucy tugs sharply at Annabel’s skirts, in an apparent effort to stop her. The little girl’s face has a peculiar look of terror upon it.

  ‘I don’t care what she was telling you, Miss Krout, just please step aside. Lucinda – stand up straight and come here.’

  Lucinda dutifully stands up and walks over to her father.

  ‘I have just come home and your mother tells me you have not eaten your dinner.’

  The little girl looks at the food and nods.

  ‘Why do you persist in disobeying us? Do you not think your mother has enough to contend with?’

  The little girl says nothing, though her eyes look tearful.

  ‘Sir,’ interjects Annabel Krout, ‘I hardly think you can blame her. She has been through a terrible trial herself.’

  ‘Miss Krout, please,’ says Woodrow, though his tone is far from conciliatory. ‘It is not your place to apologise for my daughter. She must learn the consequences of her actions. She has been told many times before. Lucinda, hold out your hand.’

  Lucinda mechanically holds out her arm, palm upwards, without being bidden any further. Woodrow, in turn, unbuckles his belt, tugging it violently from his waist, doubles it over, and leans down over his daughter.

  ‘I am sorry I must punish you, Lucinda,’ he says. ‘I am your father and it gives me no joy, I assure you. But you leave me no choice. You must learn to obey your mother and father. That is your duty.’

  And with that, he swings the strap of the belt sharply down upon her outstretched palm. The child’s face crumples in pain.

  ‘Now, Lucinda, think hard before you answer, will you finish your dinner?’ says Woodrow, gesturing at the cold plate of beef and potatoes. Lucy, still wincing, her face bright red, angrily shakes her head, tears streaming down her cheeks.

  ‘Very well,’ says Woodrow. He brings the belt down again. The little girl cries out.

  ‘Now,’ he continues, ‘will you eat your dinner?’

  Lucy makes no response, but Annabel steps forward, interposing herself between father and daughter. ‘Sir!’ she exclaims indignantly. ‘For pity’s sake – she is only a little girl!’

  ‘Miss Krout,’ says Woodrow, drawing a deep breath, ‘you have no right to be here.’

  ‘I cannot stand by and watch this . . . barbarity, sir. There is no other word.’

  ‘By heavens, Miss Krout,’ says Woodrow, raising his arm theatrically, his face as red and flushed as that of his daughter, ‘if you do not stand aside, I shall whip you both.’

  Annabel does not flinch, at least to all outward appearance. But she cannot help involuntarily closing her eyes as Woodrow, seeing that she will not move, brings the belt crashing down. It is only at the last moment, the strap swinging inches from her face, that he turns and slams it upon the table, sending the plate of food flying on to the floor with a resounding crash.

  Woodrow takes a step backwards, looking at the mess. ‘Very well,’ he says at last, ‘Lucinda, you will go hungry until you apologise to your mother.’

  The little girl again remains silent. Jasper Woodrow takes a deep breath and, with a fierce glance at his wife’s cousin, stalks from the room.

  Annabel Krout visibly sags as Woodrow departs. When she has recovered herself, she bends down to Lucy Woodrow, gently taking hold of her hand. The little girl remains stolidly silent.

  ‘We’ll put something on that to make it better,’ says Annabel.

  Lucy nods, her cheeks still awash with tears.

  ‘Lucy,’ says Annabel, hesitantly, ‘I am so sorry your Poppa did that.’

  Again, silence.

  ‘Before, though, when we were talking, about the man outside? You said you saw him fighting? There’s no need to be frightened. He’s gone now. Can you tell me, who was he fighting with?’

  Lucy Woodrow shakes her head, very firmly indeed.

  ‘Tell me, just nod if this is true, was it with your Poppa? Did he fight with him?’

  Lucy Woodrow neither nods nor shakes her head, but looks glumly at the floor. It strikes Annabel Krout, however, that Lucy does not disagree with the proposition.

  And, suddenly, she herself feels quite frightened.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  ANNABEL KROUT SPENDS several minutes comforting her young cousin and, in truth, regaining her own composure, before she quits the nursery and walks out on to the landing. She finds Jacobs waiting on the stairs, making a rather unconvincing feint at dusting the banister.

  ‘Can you get Miss Lucy some ice, please, Jacobs?’ asks Annabel, looking back towards the nursery door, and wondering how much explanation is appropriate. ‘She needs it for her hand.’

  ‘Of course, Miss,’ replies Jacobs.

  ‘Where is your master, do you know?’

  ‘I think in the study, Miss.’

  ‘And Mrs. Woodrow is still downstairs?’

  ‘Yes, Miss.’

  ‘Good. Thank you,’ replies Annabel, hurrying past the maid and down the staircase. She does not stop until she reaches the ground floor. Indeed, she is slightly out of breath when she returns to the morning-room, where she finds her cousin still engaged in her desultory attempt at needlework.

  ‘Annabel, my dear,’ says Mrs. Woodrow, ‘are you quite all right?’

  ‘I’m fine, Melissa,’ replies Annabel, carefully closing the door behind her. ‘May I speak to you for a moment?’

  ‘Why, of course. Will Lucy eat her food now, do you think? Oh, Woodrow is home – did you
see him? He said he was going up.’

  ‘I did,’ replies Annabel, sitting down opposite her cousin, leaning towards her. ‘Cousin, I . . .’

  ‘What, my dear? Why, you look so pale all of a sudden!’

  ‘Forgive me, there is no pleasant way to put this – Melissa, I am not sure that I can stay here any longer. I do not feel I am, well, quite safe.’

  ‘Not safe? Oh, Annabel, first Jervis, now you too!’ exclaims Mrs. Woodrow. ‘This morning was too awful, I know, but, really, it is done with now. And where would you go?’

  ‘It is not a question of what happened this morning,’ says Annabel, shaking her head. ‘Not entirely.’

  ‘Whatever do you mean, dear?’

  ‘Your husband . . . well, just now, I am sorry, Melissa, but I am afraid he nearly struck me.’

  ‘Woodrow? Surely not.’

  ‘He was punishing Lucy for not eating her food,’ replies Annabel, rushing through her words. ‘He would not listen to me and he began whipping her with his belt. Cousin, she was in a terrible state, and I stepped between them and—’

  ‘Oh, Annabel, my dear child,’ says Melissa Woodrow, with a slight hint of condescension in her voice, ‘I know you have a good heart, my dear, but you should not interfere. I mean to say, I don’t know the Boston way of doing such things, but Woodrow must discipline Lucinda at times – why, it is his duty, more than anything. You know he has a temper. He cannot help that. And he did not actually strike you, I take it?’

  ‘No. But it is not just that – I was talking to Lucy and, well, she did not come right out and say it, but I am sure she saw them fighting.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Her father and the . . . and Brown. But she is too scared to say anything. She said she lied to the police.’

  ‘Fighting? Annabel, whatever are you implying? Besides, I was with Lucinda all morning; I am sure I would know if she was lying. I am her mother.’

  ‘And I must show you this,’ continues Annabel, reaching down and picking up her book, her movements as hurried and anxious as her speech. She flicks through the pages until she finds the paper ticket of admission to the Holborn Casino. Mrs. Woodrow takes the ticket from her and looks at it with some perplexity.